Gray air hangs heavy over town and city, it's hot
and the humidity is high. The locust revels though his fare is
grittied by the passing omnibus and fly. The dust gets deeper
with each rainless hour spent awaiting Someday's
thundershower.

Since you couldn't say, (and it wasn't gusty anyway),
I took my question of the wind to Forest Park where my three
friends The Graces told me, "Chilly breezes blow when e'er
Aeolus pleases to torment us or to freeze us."

Saturday you forsaw warmth and sunshine in your
crystal ball Sunday heavy clouds appeared that shed their
burdens on us all. But dampened hopes precipitate no
tears-- your unassuming smile, as always, reigns.

This weather's fine for Esquimaux who dwell in
houses made of snow, who picnic gaily on the ice, and frolic
in the northern light.

The Illusions of Four
o' Clock
(after Wallace Stevens)
This room is haunted
by vivid visions: a cocky khaki general who becomes three pink
posing ladies who become an old man fiercely frowning who
becomes a young man, smiling, wearing green, riding a red
cycle in blue weather.

Enclosed--a Flower
What troubles you my star? I hope you are not
ill! Herein a sunny daffodil. If it fails to cheer you
up perhaps a yellow buttercup . . . or maybe I could send
you a calendula to mend you?

Enclosed--a Photograph
So you're not amused by flowers? Surely this will
make you smile! It's eyes are in the doleful style of Keene; it
isn't merely sober, it's severe-- yet lightens me of, maybe, half
my years. (Ah--so young for one's appearing so austere!) Your
laughter may nigh bring you unto tears but never fear-- life
is full of rain and contradictions. Mille pardons pour le
chignon!

Chapter 3
A distant urgent jangling draws her from her bed;
she holds the cold receiver next her head: "Score bookstore!
It's a whale of a sale." Confusion and
delight--"Goodnight." And once again our heroine neglects to
ask the all-important "When?" But it's all right, for in a
flight of fancy she invites herself (the elf!), and abandoning
convention dials the railroad station to inquire about a train . . .
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